


Tuesday, August 6, 2013

by COBALT (nacaratskies)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dramatic Irony, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I guess it’s fluff? Technically?, IT IS NOT INCEST, Martin is also there but not enough to tag him, Not Beta Read, Surprisingly domestic?, Time Travel Fix-It, Time travel fix-it from the POV of a guy who doesn’t know wtf is going on, but only if you want there to be, i hate that I have to specify that, only minimally edited too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:33:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23377699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nacaratskies/pseuds/COBALT
Summary: I could tell you about how the time travel came about, how it worked, why the necessary people and monsters and other various things agreed to do it. I could tell you why it was Tim Stoker, specifically, who was sent back. I could tell you exactly what he did, and what happened to Jon, to Sasha, to Martin, to Elias and to the world this time.I think instead I will tell you what happened to Danny.
Relationships: Danny Stoker & Tim Stoker
Comments: 28
Kudos: 174
Collections: Great Time Travel Fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What’s this?? More than one work in a single fandom? I must be going insane. Anyway, this was born from the idea of having a time travel fix-it but from the perspective of a guy who doesn’t know it’s a time travel fix-it, because there’s so much dramatic irony to be had there. Have I ever heard Danny Stoker speak in canon? No. But regardless, I love him dearly. This is very niche but I’m posting it in the hope that there should someone out there who’ll like it

It's much too late at night to be making dinner. This would be undignified—maybe it still is?—but Danny has been packing and unpacking and repacking and checking the photos of the theatre every minute, giggling with excitement, which would be stupid except Danny makes it a point to always let himself be hyped up, so he embraces it instead. So sue him, he forgot to eat until nine and now he's making spaghetti and listening to Everything Everything as loud as he can without the neighbours hearing. The window is open. The night outside is warm and dark and full of city noise. Life is good!

There's an air of excitement pervading the whole evening that makes it hard to stop smiling—not that Danny tries at all. He lets himself grin wildly at the bubbling glee in his chest as he takes his spaghetti out of the pot, serves himself a nice bowl and slathers it with that very expensive but awesome mushroom tomato sauce—one of his favourite meals, as a treat before the big night. He thinks for a second before shovelling half a plate of kale on there too. He shuffles and spins around with the bowl in his hand on his way to the bar, nearly slips and falls, recovers himself, says "Whoa, there, close one!" to himself with a good-natured grin, and sits down. He's just about to dig in when there's a knock at the door.

He briefly wonders who on Earth could be calling this late, but without much delay he gets up, pauses his music (right in the middle of the song!) and goes to answer it.

The door opens to reveal Tim. Danny blinks in surprise, is about to say something about how he wasn't expecting him, about coming in and having some spaghetti, when he notices the look on Tim's face and he starts to feel a little unsettled. "Oh, hey, Tim. Wasn't expecting you—everything alright?"

As soon as he speaks, Tim smiles a tight-lipped smile. "Hey! I was in the neighbourhood and thought I'd drop in. Uh, sorry, I know it's a bit late."

"No problem. Got a minute, or do you have to go? I'm making spaghetti."

"No, no, spaghetti sounds great. Thanks." Tim comes in, letting Danny shut the door behind him. He pauses, then, in a hushed tone, asks, "Can I have a hug?"

That's... odd, for Tim, but Danny doesn't think too hard about it. Maybe he's just not having the greatest night. He did drop by at nine on Tuesday night after all. Not prime time for impromptu late-night spaghetti. "Sure," Danny says, and hugs him.

Then again, when is prime time for impromptu late night spaghetti? Danny's initial thought had been the weekend but then, probably it would be prime time for _scheduled_ late-night spaghetti, not that he'd make something that low-effort for guests. Unless it was fancy spaghetti. This hug is becoming quite long but Tim doesn't seem to mind so whatever. Maybe if you were in college, he decides. College, two in the morning, right before an exam. That was the time when impromptu spaghetti would probably taste best and Damny would know because he's done it—oh, shit, Tim is crying.

He's doing it neatly, shoulders shaking in absolute silence, so it takes a second for Danny to notice. Not even the smallest whimper escapes him, just an uneven huff of breath or two, but that doesn't mean anything. Tim doesn't cry. Well, he does—he did cry like normal when he was a kid and when Sid broke up with him and stuff—but not trivially, not when nothing's really wrong, which means something's really wrong.

Danny pulls away, reaching for Tim's shoulder. "Hey, man, everything alright?"

"Sorry," Tim says, looking down and away. He rubs at the side of his face. " _Fuck_. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Hey, it's alright. Come on." Danny reaches for his shoulder. "I'll go make you some tea."

"No, you don't need to. I'm fine. No, I'm seriously fine, Danny." Tim pushes his hand off, not cruelly, just a request not to do that. Danny backs down. "It's just... it's just been... uh, I don't know. I guess it's been a rough... while. I want to talk to you about something, okay?"

"Uh, okay. Okay, yeah, we can talk." Danny cringes inwardly at himself. "At least come have some spaghetti."

Tim chuckles through his tears. That's so Tim. "Lead the way."

"So, wanna tell me what happened?" Danny asks as they head through the kitchen to the bar. "What leads you to my apartment at nine-thirty? Isn't it a work night for you?"

"It is a work night, yeah. I, uh... not... really. I—I mean yes? I don't know if I should." Tim laughs but it's a scary laugh now, quiet and just a little hysterical. "I don't know if you'd believe me."

"Try me." Danny's all cocky grin hiding jittery stomach, ready to receive venting about Tim's coworkers or something. "Was it Jan again?" He picks up the pincers and starts to load some spaghetti into a bowl.

"What? No. No, God, it wasn't Jan again. I just—you wouldn't believe me, okay? It's not... it's not a thing that happens. It shouldn't be a thing that happens."

"Well—"

"Danny, I seriously don't want to talk about it." Tim puts a little warning in his voice, and Danny knows him well enough that he knows to chill out.

"Okay, okay." He puts his hands up, tongs still in his hand, still full of spaghetti. "So what can I do? D'you want a distraction, shall I talk to you about something?"

"Yeah, that would be good, thanks." Tim massages the bridge of his nose like an old white businessman. He sounds like he's sixty years old all of a sudden. Such are the woes of a successful office job, Danny thinks.

"Sure!" Danny reaches for his iPod shuffle and unpauses the music. "I've been unpacking and repacking all day. I keep thinking oh, I'm missing my flashlight! But it's buried under all my stuff so once I go check that it's there, and it is, I have to go fix everything up. This one guy I've been talking to has been down there, says it's a breeze, seriously. I don't even know how there aren't guards but y'know what, I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, am I right?" He shovels pasta sauce onto Tim's spaghetti. "That enough sauce? Oh, I've run out! This will have to be enough."

Tim doesn't answer. He's got his head in his hands. Danny continues while he gets out the Parmesan, figuring he's probably not listening but having some rambling in the background as a buffer couldn't hurt. "Well, anyway, he had these pictures, right? The detail work is great, it's been preserved so well. Apparently it's like a labyrinth down there. It's all by this guy Robert Smirke. He built the original, y'know. I'm really starting to like his stuff, at least what I've seen of it, it's really nice and like, geometric? But, like, in a weird way. It's really cool. Anyway, there was also this awesome picture he took of an abandoned auditorium, but it looked like it had been preserved really well, and there was old-timey stage rigging and everything. I'm going to check that out first thing tomorrow and—"

"Stop it," Tim begs, "stop it, stop it, Danny, stop." He tries to speak again but he can only start to cry in earnest.

"Oh my God." Danny pauses the music again and rushes to him. "Oh, Tim, I'm so sorry, I—I didn't mean to—"

Tim slaps Danny away. "You fucking idiot," he snarls, still through his tears, " _fuck_ you! You know how much I fucking _hate_ —and you just—" He loses steam near the end and ends up stopping as his voice catches.

"Tim, hey, hey, deep breaths, okay?" Danny takes some deep breaths of his own. Where did that come from? Maybe this was worse than he'd thought—Tim was still crying—a little slower now, taking a few long, shaky breaths. Danny reaches for him and Tim shoves him away viciously, then pauses and shakes his head. "Sorry," he murmurs, "sorry, I just—I'm sorry." He reaches for Danny like a lost child, then, and once enfolded in his arms, begins to ugly cry into the shoulder of his hoodie.

They sit there in relative silence for a bit until Tim sniffs and sighs, and Danny pulls away. Tim looks up at that. "What's wrong?"

Danny almost laughs. "What d'you mean, 'what's wrong'? You're having a breakdown in my kitchen, I'm worried about you!"

"No, why'd you stop? Did you see something? I—"

"No, it just occurred to me that you'd hate that. Being coddled."

"Oh. No, no, it's... it's fine." Tim sniffs. It's a pathetic sound, makes Danny want to hug him again, but he doesn't. "I actually appreciate it. Could use a bit of coddling these days. Sorry for worrying you, I guess." At least the intrusion got him to stop crying so hard. He sniffs, then lets out a mangled laugh. "God, I'm such a mess, I'm sorry. I didn't come here just to have a breakdown, waste everyone's time, but it's just _hard_ , you know? I just wanted to come and talk. I didn't know how—how hard it was going to be, all of this." He gestures vaguely. "And now it's all gone off the rails, and I—I just don't know what to _do_."

Danny pauses. "Listen, don't—don't even worry about it, okay? Are you sure you don't want to tell me what's upsetting you? Did something go wrong? It's just, you're not making a lot of sense, and—"

"You wouldn't believe me," Tim repeats.

"Tim, please, I want to help. Clearly something's wrong, but I can't help if I don't know what's happened."

"You wouldn't _believe_ me," Tim says. "Maybe if I'd come later, but—no. It doesn't matter."

"Okay." Danny takes a deep breath. "You know what? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"Thank you."

"Do you want me to keep talking?"

The answer comes too firm, too fast. "No."

"Did I upset you?"

"Yes." Tim pauses. "...No." Then he sighs. "Yes."

Danny resists the nervous urge to laugh. "What was it?"

"It's really stupid."

He lets out a frustrated breath. "I can't avoid the topic if you won't tell me what it is! You're seriously freaking me out here!"

Tim glares at him and turns away to stare into his spaghetti.

"Okay," Danny says, "okay. I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. I'm just—I'm worried about you. I just want to help, okay?" Gently now, steady, as if Tim is a wounded animal. He hates that, it's clear on his face, but Danny doesn't know how else to proceed.

Tim takes a breath, though, and then another. "Okay. Okay, it's Covent Garden. The, the Royal Opera House, the ghost theatre, whatever. That's what upset me. Happy now?"

"What? Why? Is this all because you don't want me to go?" Yeah, he'd been upset about it last time but he hadn't been this upset, not enough to cry, never mind like _that_ , there had to be something wrong, something seriously seriously _wrong_ —

"No! I mean, yes. I mean—!" Tim groans. "Fuck. Yes, it's that, Danny, it's just not the same. I didn't—I—I don't, I mean. Give me a second." He takes a breath. "I didn't want you to go before because it's against the law and I thought you'd get caught." He cuts Danny off before he can argue. "No, listen to me. I still don't want you to go but my reasons have changed. I don't care if it's illegal anymore, get arrested all you want but seriously, Danny, do _not_ go there. I can't tell you what my reasons are, you just have to trust me. I know that it's stupid, okay? But I need you to believe me. If you've ever trusted me on anything, just trust me on this. _Please_."

Danny's first thought is that this is a lie, a ruse, that Tim's reasons haven't changed and he's just acting. He's a decent liar after all. But the crying doesn't make any sense. Tim can't fake cry to save his life and if he could he surely wouldn't if only for dignity's sake, he would not be ugly crying in Danny's flat at—he checks his watch—ten to ten at night, he'd just call the police, wouldn't he? But fuck him, why's his intuition or whatever so good anyway, Danny doesn't have to take it on faith, Tim owes him some explanation, some _something_ , but he's so upset, but maybe if Danny wouldn't believe him he shouldn't believe him anyway—

"Danny," Tim says, "do you trust me?"

Danny avoids his eyes.

"Danny, do you _trust_ me."

Goddamn it. "Goddamn it," Danny says. "Okay, okay, okay. Fine. I won't go to the theatre, if it really means that much to you."

"Thank you." Tim slumps down in his chair with a sigh of relief. "Thank you. I love you."

This is a heavy 'I love you.' Not the sort of thing you say before hanging up the phone. Not a platitude. Something more serious and heavy and precious, words that really mean I love you with all the weight behind the word 'love' used properly. Danny's not sure he's ever heard it from Tim before. It's scary.

"I love you too," Danny says, deliberately and with meaning, the same way Tim said it.

There's a moment of silence. Then Danny sighs. "Do you still want that spaghetti?"

Tim laughs out loud at that. "What?"

"I finished mine. If you're not going to eat it I should put it in the—"

"Oh. Yeah, sure. Take it." Tim pushes the bowl away.

Danny takes it. "Thanks. You should get some sleep."

Tim nods. "Yeah." So Danny gets up, clears the plates, and goes to fetch the scratchy spare blanket from his linen closet.

The moment of quiet, out of the room with Tim, brings back the anxiety he'd been pressing down. He manages to make it all the way to the linen closet and retrieve the blanket before it overwhelms him. Blanket in hand, he takes a deep breath, then another. Then he tosses the scratchy blanket onto his bed, grabs his own soft blanket, folds it to make it look like it came out of the linen closet, and re-enters. Tim's still just sitting there, hasn't moved since Danny left. He seems to be lost in thought. Danny's not sure why that relieves him so much.

Tim offers minimal resistance to Danny's half-ironic half-concerned attempt at parentally coaxing him to sleep. He takes the blanket readily enough but refuses to curl up on the couch until Danny threatens to lend him pyjamas and sing him a lullaby, at which point he relents and finally pulls it over himself. Danny passes him a pillow for his head and tucks him in, still with that half-mocking pretence to hide the growing lump in his throat. "Goodnight, Timmy," he lilts, just like Mum used to.

"Shut up," Tim grumbles, already sounding half-asleep.

"Well, I'd better get to bed as well." Danny gets up, stretching, and moves to the door. "Big day of absolutely nothing tomorrow."

"Don't be mad," Tim says, and he sounds so tired that suddenly Danny isn't mad anymore even though he hadn't known he even was mad before. "Please. Can we do something together tomorrow, just the two of us?"

"Okay," Danny says, and he doesn't know why. He has plans tomorrow with Abigail. This feels more important somehow. "We'll spend the day together tomorrow. Have a brother day."

"Hell yeah," Tim says, smile audible. "Brother day. August seventh. Let's make it a thing."

"Well, we'll see how it goes," Danny says with a wry smile. "Call me if you need anything," he lilts.

"Shut up."

"Will do. Goodnight."

"Love you. G'night."

This 'love you' is a vague comfort this time, a casual affirmation, a callback to the real thing, Danny thinks as he brushes his teeth and changes. Tim has never really made a habit of saying 'love you' before bed, but Danny doesn't mind him starting now. It's a comforting degree of normalcy even in its abnormality.

In the morning Danny goes for his usual run without really thinking about it. It's a concession to habit, moving through the fresh morning air in the early morning sun, waving to friends and neighbours with a 'Hey, Neil, how's it going,' or a 'Aw, she's growing so fast' when he stops to greet Alice's new baby. By the time he reaches the door to his apartment he's almost feeling normal again, runner's high boosting his mood as he walks in the door.

That feeling evaporates when he comes in to find Tim on the couch, still wearing yesterday's clothes, hunched over himself and breathing slowly like he's trying to calm down. When the door opens his head snaps up, and Danny can see that his eyes are bloodshot and wild. As soon as he sees Danny, though, relief floods instantly into his face. "I thought you were gone," he says.

"I was gone. I was on a run." Danny pauses. "Uh—sorry. I probably shouldn't have, huh?"

"No, I thought you were _gone_ ," Tim repeats, a bit quieter. Then he gathers himself, takes a deep breath, runs trembling fingers through his hair. "Yeah. No, no, it's—it's fine. Just took me by surprise is all."

"What, me going for a run in the morning?"

"No, waking up with you not there."

"Okay. I'm sorry." Danny tries to be sincere. Tim really does sound freaked out. Even though it's a weird thing to be freaked out about. "I'm going to go shower. Do you want me to make breakfast?"

"No, I'll do it."

"You got it." And Danny leaves.

When he once again enters the kitchen, now properly dressed and shaved and showered, Tim is making an omelette. He turns when Danny comes in. "Hey. Do you want peppers in your omelette?"

"Absolutely." Danny goes to fetch the ingredients of a protein shake. "How are you feeling?"

Tim gives him a wan smile. "Much better." He adds the peppers studiously, avoiding Danny's eyes. "So, no Royal Opera House."

"No," Danny sighs. "No Royal Opera House." He tosses in some assorted vegetables and fruit, water, some protein powder, and he gets out the hand blender.

"I'm sorry," Tim says. "I know it's disappointing."

"No, no, you're probably right. It's too dangerous." Danny nods slowly, trying to resign himself to the loss. "I'll do something else."

"Thank you." The sheer relief on Tim's face gives Danny some gratification, at least. "Danny, you have no idea how much that means."

"If it means you don't have any more breakdowns, I'll do it in a heartbeat." It's true. There are a lot of things Danny would rather do than have Tim sobbing on the floor of his kitchen. Missing out on a cool building is apparently one of them.

Tim smiles wide. "You're the best brother ever."

Danny grins back at him. "I really am." And with the emotional moment safely over, he starts to blend the smoothie.

"So when are you gonna kick me out?" Tim asks.

"We're having a brother day, remember?"

"No, like tonight."

"Whenever you feel like leaving."

"Oh." Tim nods. "Can I... can I stay another night?"

"Why? I mean, sure, Tim, if it will help, but why?"

"I can't explain it," Tim says, "but I need to make sure you're alright."

"I'm always alright," Danny jokes. "Maybe I'll be the one watching over you." He checks. Still too lumpy. He keeps blending.

"That's entirely possible," Tim says, dead serious in a way that unsettles Danny. "I just want us to stick together tonight, okay?"

"You got it," Danny says. He refrains from commenting on how worrying that is. Tim looks guilty enough already. He tests the shake—perfect. "You want some shake?"

Tim makes a face. "There's kale in that?"

"Hey, it's good! Try some, c'mon, I made extra." Danny did not, in fact, make extra, but Tim doesn't need to know that. He pours half a glass for Tim and half for himself.

Tim tastes it and makes a face. "Tastes like protein powder."

"And?"

Tim sighs good-naturedly. "Oh, all right, it's not bad."

"Thank you!" Danny grins, triumphant.

After breakfast, Danny, with a heavy heart, makes the proper arrangements to call off the visit to the Royal Opera House and cancels his lunch plans with Abigail citing a family emergency while Tim takes over his computer to send a few emails. Abigail's apologetic on the phone, says she hopes everything turns out okay. Either way Tim hasn't seemed overly upset since Danny came back from his run this morning, so that's promising.

They do have that brother day, after all. They go down to get ice cream at that place near Danny's flat. Danny gets a stack of bubblegum ice cream and Tim makes fun of him for it because bubblegum is supposedly the worst flavour of ice cream, while Tim gets a single scoop of chocolate, which Danny also makes fun of him for on the basis of being boring. Ice cream in hand, they go down to the nearest park, though it's a bit of a walk, and throw pebbles into the small pond and chat. On the way back Danny insists on picking up another jar of that mushroom sauce, only to find upon returning home that he'd had a spare this whole time.

Even Tim struggles through Danny's admittedly intense daily workout (it's technically CrossFit, though Danny takes great pride in only owning one CrossFit t-shirt), then they watch Iron Man and Tim complains loudly about Danny's popcorn making skills, threatening to go pour an entire stick of butter over it until Danny threatens to force-feed him kale.

Tim seems... antsy. Happy, but nervous, like he's expecting someone to jump out and yell 'boo' at any minute. Every time Danny brings it up he just denies it, says it's nothing, he just didn't sleep very well. Danny offers for him to use one of his melatonin pills that he saves for travel, but Tim refuses much too quick. Still, he seems happy, ecstatic even, to have Danny around. He stares at him, sometimes for full minutes on end while he thinks Danny isn't paying attention, just drinking in Danny's presence like sunlight with a satisfied look on his face.

The evening and night, too, pass without a problem, playing card games (Tim wins at Casino three times straight, but Danny remains king of Uno) and reading and chatting and just doing whatever, really. They have spaghetti for dinner again, because why not.

The first hint that anything's wrong is that when they finally agree to sleep at around eleven-thirty, Tim insists on Danny going to bed before him. Danny doesn't think much of it, so he leaves Tim reading on the couch ("Goodnight, I love you," as if it's the easiest thing in the world) and sleeps pretty well, dismissing the thoughts of Covent Garden with not a little disappointment.

When he wakes up the kitchen is clean. Danny goes to thank Tim for cleaning it, but the apartment is empty. Tim is gone and there's a note on the kitchen counter.

More of a letter, really.

_Danny—_

_I stayed until I knew you were safe, but I have to go now. It'll hopefully be a while before you see me again. A couple years at least. I might not even come back. Don't wait up for me._

_I'm really sorry, but there's stuff I need to do, people I need to take care of, and it would put you in danger to be close to me. That's cliché, isn't it? I know you can take care of yourself. Just don't be stupid. Hey, do me a favour and stop exploring abandoned buildings at night. Also, if you ever get into skydiving or scuba diving again, avoid old men named Simon like the plague. And don't get into caving, just don't._

_I'd ask you not to call the cops but I don't think that would stop you. Please don't try and find me._

_I really enjoyed our brother day._

_I love you._

_Tim :)_

But no, right? There's no way this is fucking happening. No way. This is absurd. This can't be real life.

Danny takes out his phone and calls Tim. "Hey, this is Tim Stoker, I can't take your call right now but leave a message and—" Danny hangs up.

He does it again. No answer.

And again. No answer. He leaves a strongly worded voicemail.

He calls Mum and Dad then, both of whom got 'concerning' emails from Tim this morning. He checks his computer, but Tim signed out of his email and apparently reset his password after using it, so no new information there. He calls Tim's work, he wasn't there this morning, and he left his two weeks' notice the day before yesterday. He calls Tim's friends, no news from them either. 

He goes to Tim's flat, half-expecting to see—he doesn't know what. On the way he tries to think. Tim hasn't given him anything, right? But he'd been pretty sketchy. He'd seemed pretty miserable too—no, enough of that. No point in dwelling on that, it'll only create panic.

He doesn't find anything like that, though. Tim doesn't seem to have been there since the day before yesterday. The apartment is spotless, except for one thing—lying neatly on the kitchen counter is Tim's will, updated to the day before yesterday.

Danny feels like he's going to throw up. He calls the police.

But Tim isn't anywhere, and nobody's seen him since the day before except Danny, and he's not seen anywhere after that and the searches come up blank and all the leads are red herrings, all the sightings are misreported and he hasn't fled the country because he didn't buy any tickets or show any signs or anything that would have told anyone anything about where he is or what he's doing or why and if he's okay—

—one week of looking, two weeks, a month, two months, six months, this can't be happening—

—and the trail goes cold, and people think he killed himself but he can't have, he can't have because there's no body, and he didn't have any symptoms, or he did but not like that, and because he just wouldn't, he just _wouldn't_ , okay, because there's no way Danny's brother is fucking dead, he's got to be out there somewhere because this can't be happening, this can't be fucking happening, it can't be really real.

On the 7th of August 2017, a wax museum in Greater Yarmouth goes up in flames in a baffling... terrorist attack?

Danny doesn't see Tim again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing the formatting on this was really annoying dear god. I also feel it’s important to tell you all that at all times in this fic Tim is resisting the powerful urges to just hug Danny and start crying and/or slap him in the face and yell at him. 
> 
> While researching this I found out that the Unknowing happens on the 4 year anniversary of Danny’s death? Jonny Sims who gave you the right—
> 
> Anyway, the optional epilogue is still to come. You can stick around if you like, or if you like this ending you can take it. It’s like a choose your own adventure, but you just get to choose which end of my dumbassery you end up on! Yaaay!


	2. Epilogue: Thursday, August 10, 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~Danny doesn't see Tim again.~~
> 
> It's a while before Danny sees Tim again. 
> 
> "Hello, Daniel Stoker speaking." 
> 
> "Er, hi. My name's Martin Blackwood? I'm a, an archival assistant at the Magnus Institute."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pathologically incapable of writing anything under 2000 words. 
> 
> Fair warning: there's a pretty decent amount of swearing in this one and relatively nongraphic descriptions of injury as well as an anxiety attack

August 7th isn't marked on any calendar Danny owns. He makes it a point never to mark it, actually. Of course, he does have a dinner date on that day with his parents and some closer extended family. They do their best to fill it with togetherness and love, but somehow it's still gone rotten all the way through for Danny. 

He supposes that's reasonable.

He appreciates his friends and family, he really does. He acts sullen sometimes. He lashes out sometimes. So do they. They understand, and still support and include him, make him feel loved. And therapy really did help. Still, he wonders if August will ever be anything good to him, if maybe one day the aching emptiness will pull itself back to just the week of the 7th, or just the day, maybe even shrink down to only one awful moment to sting at Danny's heart once a year. It's such a slippery thing, the emptiness. He has every support system he could want. He knows how to cope. None of it ever fixes the fact that he just wants to see Tim's face again, and it hurts.

Still, there are a few things he's learned in the four years since Tim's disappearance, and one of them is that it's hard to wallow while you're taking a good long run and listening to trashy music. So that's what he's doing on the morning of Thursday, August the 10th. He says hi to Alice and little four-year-old Mabel out drawing with chalk, waves to Neil in the street. He's just passed the two kilometre mark when his phone rings, tragically interrupting a mediocre workout remix of Hips Don't Lie.

It's an unknown caller, so he introduces himself when answering even if it's probably spam. "Hello, Daniel Stoker speaking," he says.

"Er, hi," says a man on the other end. "My name's Martin Blackwood? I'm a, an archival assistant at the Magnus Institute."

Well, it doesn't sound like spam. There's a bit of an awkward silence.

"Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Blackwood," says Danny. "What's this regarding?"

"Uh, I'm at St. Thomas' Hospital right now, a, a friend of mine asked me to contact you. His name is Nicholas Wells?"

"I'm afraid I don't recognize the name."

"Oh. Okay. Well, he just asked me to call you and let you know to come by today or tomorrow and see him."

"Huh." Danny frowns. "Do you know why, or where he got my number?"

"No, he was quite vague. I'm sorry. I can ask him later, but he's sleeping right now."

"Oh, it's no problem. Probably a job offer or something." It wouldn't be the weirdest call Danny's received from agents of one sort or another. "Does eleven today work?"

"Sure! Sure, yeah, eleven works, uh... just let the secretary know you were sent by Elias Bouchard and you're looking for Nicholas Wells."

"Isn't your name Martin Blackwood?"

"Uh, yeah? Why?"

"You just said Elias Bouchard—oh, never mind. Thanks for letting me know."

"Yeah, no problem. I mean, my pleasure." And the Blackwood guy hangs up.

Danny shrugs, writes the three names in his notes as well as the name of the hospital, unpauses the masterpiece that is Hips Don't Lie (Top 40 Zumba Remix), and continues with his run.

When he's done his run and a lovely cold shower, he checks the time, then checks Google Maps, and decided he'd better leave now if he wants to get to the hospital by eleven.

He decides to take the metro down, because why not, and while he's waiting for it to arrive he googles the Magnus Institute. Apparently it does research into the supernatural. Weird, but again, not the weirdest job offer he's ever had. Looks like this Elias Bouchard is the Head of the Institute, which makes things make a little more sense. There's an article about a recent murder there. Some unidentified old man. His train arrives before he can finish reading, though, and Danny just decides to listen to music on the way instead. He tips a guy playing guitar at the station and walks down from the stop to the hospital.

Speaking in terms of construction, St. Thomas' Hospital is a large white box. It crouches by the side of the Thames, but Danny wouldn't call it ugly, per se, because it's not. It's just there. He goes in without much more thought to his surroundings, solicits the help of the secretary shockingly easily once he drops Elias Bouchard's name, and in no time at all finds himself heading to the room of one Nicholas T. Wells.

He finds it relatively easily. Waiting outside is a large man, hunched in over himself, who looks surprised when he sees Danny, then squints at him with a look of dawning realization before gathering himself, looking around and reddening slightly.

"Hello," he says, "I'm Martin Blackwood? We talked on the phone."

"Yes, I remember. Nice to meet you in person." Danny shakes Martin's hand. "So, should I talk to Mr. Wells?"

"What? Oh, yeah, he's right in there. Not sleeping anymore or—or anything. I'll just be out here I guess."

"Okay, thanks," Danny says, and pushes the door open.

"Who's that?" asks a voice.

Danny recognizes that voice from voicemails and videos and faded memory, and it hurts his heart to hear it, physically _hurts_ like the point of a knife. Suddenly the air feels heavy coming in and out of his lungs, like molasses, like honey, syrupy and thick and definitely not breathable.

"Hello?" The man in the bed sits up, suddenly wary. He's covered in _scars_ , in little round scars and in these awful burn scars half-covered by new-looking skin grafts, and his hair is longish with an old dye job that shows a familiar colour at the root and his eyes, God, there are bandages over his eyes, but Danny would recognize him anywhere.

Danny doesn't know what else to do, so, though the desperate tears that shake him, he answers. "Huh," he says, voice shaking so bad he doesn't know if he'll be comprehensible. "Fancy seeing you in a place like this."

"Oh, _Danny,_ " Tim says, a gentle exclamation of unimaginable relief, and holds his arms out wide. Danny doesn't even remember running, just remembers arms wrapping around him, thinner and smelling of antiseptic, but still Tim's arms, impossibly here, impossibly alive. "I said I'd be back, didn't I? Didn't I?" Tim crows it as if he's declaring his victory, but Danny just breathes him in, feels how real he is, doesn't even bother replying. Distantly he registers that he's getting Tim's hospital gown wet.

They don't say anything for a long time. Tim doesn't cry. Danny's not sure if he even can, he doesn't know what happened to his eyes, but Tim doesn't even seem inclined to sound upset. Just as well that one of them is calm. For a while Danny can breathe less and less with every passing second, but he manages to take a deep breath, then another, and another, and get a little more coherent, enough to pull back out of Tim's arms and try to gather his emotions. He grasps for something concrete, something a little clearer than what he's feeling now.

"You asshole," he manages, voice interrupted by hiccuping. "You fucking asshole. You—you made Mum cry."

"I know. I'm so sorry," Tim says, and he really does sound sorry. "I missed you all."

Danny just swears breathlessly. "Where the hell were you? We looked for you—"

"I know. I was living under a different name."

"Why?"

"Because if you knew me, you'd be vulnerable. It wasn't safe."

"That's such _bullshit_!" Over the waves of, of _everything_ crashing down on him, Danny finds himself resisting the urge to just scream, to just scream at Tim, to grab his shoulders and shake him and scream until he understands the shit he put everyone through for four fucking years and he's just sitting there, he's just _sitting_ there, all calm and fucking collected like he didn't end Danny's universe in 2013, like he has the right to just walk in again, to lie to him on the phone, hiding behind his _stupid_ friend.

He's still just sitting there, stroking Danny's shoulder like he's just having a pretty little cry instead of feeling like his heart's being ripped open all over again, like his grief isn't so intense it feels violent. He's saying some bullshit like "Just trust me, it's going to be okay now," and why should Danny even try? Why not scream? Why not make him understand? There's nothing Danny wants to do more. So he does it. Fuck courtesy, fuck everyone in this goddamn hospital. Fuck this, and especially fuck Tim and his mysteries.

"No," Danny says, slapping Tim's hand away. "You know what, _fuck_ you! D'you know how many hours I spent just worrying about you? I didn't even know if you were alive! People said you killed yourself! They declared you dead because of that fucking _will_ and I just had to fucking sit there and wait and wait and wait like a useless—like, like I couldn't fucking do anything with my life and my self and I was just waiting for you or for news or closure or—or—or anything at all while you were out here dicking around at the _Magnus Institute_ apparently, hunting ghosts or whatever while your whole family thought you were dead and now you're gonna just sit there looking like that and you're still gonna tell me that I don't need to know and—and—and—ugh, God, you're so fucking insufferable!"

"I know, Danny, I'm sorry, I really am, but you don't understand." Tim is trying to calm him, now, is trying to put his hand on Danny's arm, he's trying to apologize. "You just need to trust me," he says, but Danny's heart and mouth race too fast to take any more of that. His head spins and his vision narrows but he keeps talking.

"Don't fucking touch me! You know what happened the last time I just trusted you? You walked out on me! For four years! You know what that did to me? Do you know what that did to our fucking family, our parents, our cousins? I had to go to therapy for literally four years because I couldn't stop thinking about you when I was supposed to just be doing normal people things and it actually gave me anxiety attacks, Tim, I couldn't function because I was always thinking about you and if you were dead or alive or okay and then later if I could have done anything to stop you and if it was my fault you supposedly killed yourself! And Mum wasn't any better, so add that to your conscience too, fucking prick! You can't just _do_ that to me, you can't just walk back into my life after doing that to me and Mum and Dad, that's not fucking okay, that's not _fair_ —"

"Alright, fine! What do you want from me then?" Tim snaps. "Do you want an apology? Fine, I'm sorry, Danny. I'm really, really sorry that I thought to keep you safe while I went off and did unimaginably dangerous things—"

"At the Magnus Institute? Oh, yeah, I might have gotten crushed by a _bookshelf_ —"

"Oh, for fuck's sake! You think I got these scars for nothing? You think I just woke up one day and decided to put out my eyes with a goddamn corkscrew? You don't know anything about what the past four years have been like for me—"

"And whose fault is that, huh? Not mine! But you're the one who ruined _my_ life for four years—"

"Unbelievable. I went through Hell and high water with nary a fucking complaint all because I knew you were out there alive, just to be with you again but oh, yeah, you were upset when I disappeared, you don't think I weighed my priorities correctly when I considered you might get murdered or absorbed or tortured or whatever by whatever godforsaken hell-thing came after me and my friends this week, yeah, as if I didn't actually think it'd make you sad—"

"Sad? Fucking _sad_? Oh I'm sorry my brother's disappearance made me _sad_ , I'm sorry thinking you died directly after talking to me made me _sad_ , I'll just go home and have a little nap then and feel better in the morning, like you didn't fucking give me an anxiety disorder, like you didn't destroy my _life_ —"

"Well, now you're just being dramatic! You're not the only person I'm trying to keep safe, you know! You're not dead, you're not skinned by some evil psychopath, what more do you want from me?"

"I want you not to have disappeared for four years!"

"Well I can't _do_ anything about that, Danny, so _try again_!"

"Fine then, I want you to not be such a smug asshole and I want you to say that what you did was _wrong_ —"

"It wasn't—"

"Then make me understand! Explain it to me, don't just ask me to trust you—"

"I can't. I just can't, you wouldn't believe me—"

"Maybe I want to decide that for myself!"

"Maybe I'm trying to protect you," Tim hisses. "You don't know what you're talking about. This kind of thing, once you know about it, it ruins your life, Danny, it gets into everything good and poisons it—"

"Oh, really? That's weird, cause that sounds like grief." Danny chuckles, a wet and low and unhealthy sound. "Sounds like uncertainty. Sounds like being unable to function like a human being 'cause your brother disappeared and you don't know how to deal with it. How coincidental. How _funny_."

"You know what?" Tim says. "You know what, fine. Fine! You're right, I was wrong, I should have told you, I should have found another way to keep you and Mum and Dad safe. Are you happy now? Can you think for one second about why you're actually mad at me?"

Danny opens his mouth to answer, but finds that he has no words, so he just leans back, feeling himself shake with rage. It's hard to breathe and the edges of his vision are dark and ragged and nothing is anything but loud jagged edges and thoughts of Tim, and oh, okay, he's having an anxiety attack, he knows how to deal with that at least. He tries to grab each buzzing pulsing feeling, to name it and explain it and calm it. That's okay. He's okay. In for four hold for four out for four. Again. Again. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

"Danny?"

"Okay," he says, throat raw with the effort of staying steady, "okay."

"Okay?" Tim's fingers hover close to Danny's arm.

"Okay." Danny takes a shaky breath, reaches up and laces his fingers into Tim's. "I'm sorry."

"No—oh, God, don't be sorry. It's my fault." Tim sighs. "I should have—I should have done something to make sure you'd be okay when you came here. I should have told you it was me."

"I wouldn't have believed you," Danny says. "It's okay. I'm okay, I'm just—it's just a bit much."

"I get it. Yeah." Tim nods. "But we're together now, okay? I'm not leaving again."

"You'd better not. I'll kill you myself next time," Danny jokes weakly.

Tim laughs. "You won't have to worry about that. I'm done with this, with all of it. The Magnus Institute, the danger, everything. I've done my job. Now everything's going to be okay. Sound good to you?"

"Sounds good to me," Danny says.

There's a moment of just breathing, just feeling Tim beside him, before another question pops into his head.

"Tim, if you, uh, if you don't my asking, your eyes—?"

"Gone. Like I said. Corkscrew." Tim makes a face.

"Oh, God. How did that happen?"

"I made a, a deal. And then I broke it. This was the price. And you know what? It was worth it."

"Shit," Danny breathes. "You're kidding."

"You think I'd joke about this?"

"No."

"Good, 'cause I'm not."

There's a moment of stunned silence.

"Alright," Tim says. "You're not going to want to hear this, but you do have to go."

"What? Why? I don't—I mean, sure—I, I'll come back tomorrow, okay?" Danny's heart speeds up again and his breathing hitches. He takes a moment. He takes another moment.

"I'm sorry, Danny, but you can't. Legally becoming Nick Wells was hard, and being Tim Stoker again is gonna be harder. I'm going to try and do that in a way that doesn't involve getting arrested. That'll take a few days at least, maybe a few weeks. Until I'm Tim again you can't come see me, and you can't tell anyone, even Mum and Dad. Today was risky enough, I just... it's been a lot lately and I wanted to see you. To, uh, to meet up I mean. To remind myself that it's all been worth it."

Danny takes a deep breath. Then another. Then another. Only after that does he trust himself to speak. "Okay, but I need you to promise you'll show up again, okay? Just, just promise."

"Sure. I promise. I'll give you Martin's number too. I don't have a phone right now but if it's an emergency you'll be able to reach me through him, and I'll ask him to update you every couple days." Tim squeezes Danny's hand, then lets go. "Take care, okay? I'll definitely see you again before the end of August."

"Before the end of August," Danny echoes. "I'll put that on my calendar. We'll have a brother day."

"Four of them, to make up for the ones I missed. Sound good?"

"Yeah, that sounds great." Danny keeps breathing, keeps managing the waves of noise and anxiety and joy that crash over him. "Okay. So I'll just—I'll just wait, then?"

"Yeah, that's about right. Martin will call you on Saturday."

"Okay." Danny nods. "Can I have a hug?"

"Of course." Tim leans in and buries himself in Danny's arms, laughing quietly. "Thank you," he says, breath warm and wet and alive on Danny's neck. "I'm so lucky to have you."

"For what? I didn't do anything," Danny half-jokes.

"You don't know it, but you did. You kept me going." Tim sighs, squeezes a little tighter, then lets go. "Alright. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay. Talk to you later."

It's almost unbearably casual, how Danny gets up and Tim waves as he leaves. He nods at Martin on the way out, who looks at him, concerned. He must look awful, he realizes, a right tearstained mess, if the pitying looks of passers-by are to be believed. It doesn't matter. The waves keep coming and Danny keeps breathing them away, weathering what he has to. It does help that deep inside him, for the first time in a while, he really believes that everything is going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THEN EVERYONE WAS HAPPY AND THE APOCALYPSE DIDNT HAPPEN, SASHA IS ALIVE AND JON IS OKAY AND SO IS MELANIE, THEY ALL GOT THERAPY AND THE ADMIRAL GOT TREATS, FOREVER AND EVER, AMEN
> 
> Ngl I'm *this* close to writing some sort of crack treated seriously fic spinoff where Martin and Danny fall in love. *This* close.
> 
> Thank you for the lovely feedback, I honestly didn't expect people to like this one but I appear to have found the 'let's give Tim the good things he deserves' niche! Lucky me. You guys leave the nicest comments :D
> 
> Edit: I might be editing and extending this work a little bit, just the parts I’m not not totally happy with, if you come back and things are a little different, that’s why. Last (hopefully final) edit on April 15 2020, my apologies if it messes with the dates a bit


End file.
